A 4 Letter Word for Love
by The Last Kitten
Summary: Technically, Sherlock didn't survive "The Fall", but death is not always an ending; Mycroft's been keeping secrets and goldfish; and Molly has a secret admirer.
1. Chapter 1

Author: The Last Kitten

Title: A 4 Letter Word for Love

Original Work: Sir A.I.C. Doyle - Sherlock Holmes/Steven Moffat & Mark Gattis...etc...i.e. Not Me! (- My disclaimer.)

Pairings: JohnLock, Mystraude, and…_ Molly/Irene A.

Author's Note: I heard they were making another season...and I just couldn't not write SOMETHING! Blerg!

oooooooooo

One week.

John stared at the metal and leather chair. He could stand there forever and count each fleck of dust that wafted by the thick beam of sunlight.

He closed his eyes and shuddered; every blink seemed to bring forth the image of Sherlock plummeting, the heaping thud as he met the concrete.

The seeping river of blood, the empty sky blue eyes, and the fading warmth from a paling limp wrist.

John thought he would vomit.

His brow was instantly moist and his stomach churned.

For a moment he feared his knees would give out, but he steadied himself in the doorway.

' _Does losing just a "friend" really hurt like this John?'_

John covered his ears.

The voice was back.

The voice.

It was the same voice that lead him through the mile long corridors of the British Library to the ancient medical texts. Some how the latin seemed familiar.

It was the voice that led him to Chloe his first girlfriend.

And to Charles...his first boyfriend.

It was that voice that had given him the half second that saved his life in Afghanistan.

And ultimately that voice was the final nudge to follow Mike Stamford to that fateful St. Bart's Hospital.

"No", john quietly admitted to the room.

Silence

John wished his head would stay as quiet as his heart was bruised.

The week had been a blur and he hadn't registered a word said to him in days.

He looked around then, suddenly realizing he had no idea when or how he'd gotten back to baker street.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't in, she'd have snapped him from his stupor long ago.

John stepped farther in to the living room, till his loafer clad toes just breached the circle of light on the floor.

And then he began to speak, compulsively.

"I can't tell," he cleared his throat. "I don't sleep much these days."

He chuckled briefly at the irony of his lecturing Sherlock on the benefits of proper sleeping habits.

"Which of course leaves me with plenty of time to think."

The doctor shook his head as a tratorish tear fell from his eye.

"Why didn't I say it," his breath hitched. "Why didn't I tell you when you...when you were here."

He choked back the sob.

"Would it have mattered?" He turned to better yell at the walls. "Would you have come to me, been honest with me...for once. Let me in for once you bast….."

The curse died in his throat as his knees finally gave way as he sank to the floor. A gloved hand covered his mouth to quiet his pain.

"I love you Sherlock," John whispered.

"I lov...ed you so much. More than you, or anyone...including me...knew".

John's hand pressed at his heart, "and I need you." It was a fierce whisper.

He sat there for a while, letting his tears dampen his jumper, but the familiar ache in his knee let him know it was time to move on, at least for today.

He braced himself on the arm of his old chair and stood.

Just then a muted crash came from down the hall.

John turned on his heel, reaching for the gun he kept tucked in the back of his trousers.

"Who's there," he called. "You're trespassing on private property."

He approached Sherlock's room silently and eased the door open.

On the windowsill sat a small black cat, it's fur long and shiny, and from the black studded collar around it's neck hung a little gold bell.

The wayward feline looked as if it'd been caught, paw extended to tap at the side of another small ceramic potted plant, as it's 'bored' blue green eyes stared up at John.

The doctor shook his head and walked over to the cat, patting it's feather soft head.

"Where'd you come from little guy." John picked up the purring wriggling cat and she deftly jumped out of his arms over his shoulder and out the bedroom door.

He chuckled as he followed the tinkling bell just as the closet door slowly swung open.

In slow motion Sherlock watched his hand reach out to John. He'd just caught sight of the dark brown leather jacket when a large hand wrapped itself around his throat, a second covering his mouth, and together they pulled him back into darkness.

oooooooooo

How'd I do!? Comments, praise, constructive criticism, and high 5's are all welcome!


	2. Chapter 2

The beeping was so light, only someone _trained_ to sleep lightly would have heard it, which was why Mycroft was slowly shifting and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Carefully he disentangled himself from the strong arms of the greying man next to him.

Lightly he swept his fingers through the white strands and frowned at the realization that he'd probably been the cause of most of them.

Swiping his phone from the nightstand, and his robe from a plush leather chair, he made his way to his study.

Mycroft closed and locked the door behind him before coming to a stop in front of a massive bookshelf. His fingers deftly pulled a well worn but sturdy leather bound book forward, "A Tangled Skein".

Slowly the wall slid aside to reveal a small adjourning room with soft red walls.

With the press of a button the projection of a round table and six colorful symbols lit up the room.

"Thank you for joining us Mr. Holmes," a sharp green eyed blond woman spoke first and Mycroft nodded.

"We've received word that there was another anomaly recorded today. Has anyone confirmed that it was the same energy signature as the one last week?" The woman looked around at her constituents.

Mycroft took a deep breath through his nose and kept his features calm, his eyes flitting to the earthy brown skinned, shamrock green eyed woman to his right.

"The data is still being analyzed. It's taking some time but the readings so far do seem to be similar." The british government sighed feigning weariness, "we will have more data by tomorrow evening and I'll have my secretary brief you…,"

"Your secretary?" An almond eyed man muttered a curse in mandarin. "This requires your full attention. There is nothing more pressing than finding out wh…."

The man's voice had begun to rise but Mycroft silenced him with the rase of his hand.

"As I stated during our last meeting," he spoke calmly, his tone even but for a slight edge of annoyance. "I will not be available for the next 48 hours for anything less than a dire outright threat to either national or world security. All other matters shall be handled by my secretary or held until I return. When we have more data it will be passed along with all due haste, but until then," Mycroft stood and five pairs of eyes glared at him. "I bid you good day."

He ended the meeting with the press of a button on his phone.

Taking a moment to listen for prying ears Mycroft opened his phone and dialed the first number on his speed dial.

"Shouldn't you be asleep," a woman yawned into the phone.

"Whatever happened today was noticed," Mycroft complained in a whisper.

"Ah jeez, Myc. Your brother is stubborn as a three legged mule," she sighed with a chuckle. "John went back to Baker Street." Mycroft paced, "you said he wouldn't be affected."

"Their connection is extraordinary…." The woman stopped abruptly.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry Myc, I know you two really need this time. I'll bind him a bit tighter."

"Thank you Lenora." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Give him my regards won't you?"

"Of course, go on back to bed. We'll talk again soon."

Mycroft stifled a yawn as he ended the call and blinked at the time, 2AM.

The British government only took two days off a year and nothing short of the apocalypse was going to keep him from it.

He locked the bedroom door as he slipped back in and dropped his robe in the chair, the night chill prickling his bare frame.

A gruff sleepy voice greeted him as he crawled back on to the massive bed.

"Kardiá, you promised no work…," Mycroft silenced the grumble with a kiss and made a point of visibly turning off his phone. "No work," he smiled.

Greg nodded and extended an arm to fold the taller man back into his chest, tucking the blanket in behind him.

"I get you all to myself for forty eight whole hours," Greg whispered stroking Mycroft's chin.

His lips were soft and warm when he touched them to his own.

"Happy anniversary, Moyo," Mycroft whispered with a small smile.

oooooooooo

Authors Note: Kardiá (Ka-div-ya) means heart in Greek, and Moyo is heart in Swahili.

_ I looked it up on bing translate…..

That is all….


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: In this version of what happens after The Reichenbach Fall, none of the characters aside from Mycroft, Lestrade, and a speckle of non cannon characters know how Sherlock survived the fall.

One week….

Molly's wrist bobbed limply, barely supporting the weight of the brain saw. Chin resting in her other palm she stared down at her chosen snack of the day.

What the hell had she been thinking? Pear Drops and Maltesers, all thrown together in a little tin.

"Still resort to sweets I see," a playful voice quipped from the doorway.

Molly flipped two metal trays in her scramble to catch the slipping brain saw.

The Woman stifled her laughter with a gloved hand, almost demure, as she stepped further into the lab.

"Ms. Addler! How did you...I mean why are you," Molly stumbled over her words, eyes darting around the room, as she stood, but she was stilled when Irene dropped her large black fur to the floor, took her cheeks in hand, and kissed the alphabet from her lips.

"Shut up," she whispered between them. Irene could taste the creamy chocolate as she passed her tongue over Molly's lips. "You don't have to play that role with me." Her eyes fell to Molly's downy soft lips.

Molly closed her eyes as they rested their foreheads together.

Slowly her veneer began to break till her shoulders were shaking with sobs. Irene wrapped her arms around the small ME.

Molly moved to hug her but stopped short, remembering her brain and blood covered fingers.

They both began to laugh as they untangled and removed their respective gloves before embracing properly. "I'm so glad you're here," Molly whispered.

Irene stepped back, "where else on earth could I possibly be."

Molly laughed and shook her head, "anywhere, you could literally be anywhere."

"True!" Irene smiled, plucking a tissue from a nearby box to better clean Molly's face. "But there's nowhere else i'd rather be." She fully handed the tissue to Molly, "go on and blow".

A few moments later they sat together, hand in hand, in Molly's office.

"How the bloody hell did you get back into London? I'm sure at least Mycroft and Lenny already know you're here."

Irene shrugged, "when I heard he was gone," she rubbed gently at Molly's palm, meeting her eyes squarely. "I had to come back. If not for him or myself, then for you. I know how much he meant to you." Molly let lose a teary smile and squeezed The Woman's hand.

"Thank you….. I'm just so _so_ shocked...but pleased," she stumbled. "That you're here. After our last meeting I never thought I'd see you again. I thought." Molly shook her head and sniffed, forcing herself to keep contact with the eyes she'd been trying to avoid for over a decade. "I know what I did was...unforgivable…."

She rubbed her thumb across Irene's wrist, remembering the perfume she'd smelled there. "I was a different person when I worked for...them." Molly's eyes darted around the rooms, quietly showing Irene where the bugs were hidden. "...and I couldn't...wasn't supposed to... _feel_. If my superiors had even suspected…." She faltered. "I couldn't think of any other way…."

Molly's past was known to three people in all of England, one of which was currently holding her hand. Her acting skills had been fooling the great Sherlock Holmes for years, with a little help from the seated british government.

Irene closed her eyes. "What you did was cowardly."Her head hung, "you ran away from me, left me to pick up the pieces of a life I didn't think was possible for someone like me."

Molly's eyes were wide with fear.

They'd had more than love once.

Trust.

The most fragile and basic component of young love.

They were too young, to jaded, and to innocent to weather the tidal wave of blood and tribulation they'd be hit with.

When the dust settled Molly had stared down at Irene's broken body and cried, silent like the grave, unintentionally, for the second time in her life.

Looking into Irene's eyes today had been the third.

When she looked up it was with a mirth and clarity that had taken nearly two decades to find.

"You also kept that bastard from killing me." Irene squeezed her hands. "And when I was released from the hospital Lenny was waiting for me with passports, cash, and a safe house."

Molly smiled and swiveled slightly in her chair, "Well that must have been helpful."

"Oh it was. That hundred thousand euros didn't hurt."

Molly tried to keep the mirth in her voice, "I couldn't have lived knowing you weren't taken care of." She scooted her chair closer. "I still can't."

They were so close Molly could smell the cherry of her lipstain. She'd remembered. Nearly twenty years and she could still remember the echo of their first kiss.

"Where are you staying, while you're in town?" Her focus was split, but only between Irene's eyes and lips.

"There's a cabby outside with your address in his GPS," she grinned.

Molly kissed her quickly and stood to grab their coats, helping Irene in to her's, before slipping on her own and offering The Woman her arm.

"I've got a ton of PTO saved up," she said with a wink, guiding them out of the morgue.

ooooo

Until next time…. /=^.^=/


	4. Chapter 4

The first dream came three months to the day after Sherlock's fall, and it began as John was jolted awake.

"Ofh! Bloody hell," he grumbled, half asleep. He rolled on to his side from his back, rising onto an elbow and peering blearily into the darkness. There on his windowsill, framed by the brightest moonlight he'd ever seen in London, sat the same black cat he'd chased from 221B, complete with silver bell and missing eye.

"How…." The ex soldier sighed as he fell back on to his pillow.

From across the room he heard the soft meow, then a moment later a meow from the foot of the bed, and he cracked an eye open when the cat called from atop his chest.

John rubbed at a feathery black ear, "how the blazes did you get in my flat little one."

The cat stretched out on his chest placing a hairy paw on his lips and John chuckled. Suddenly the cat stood and walked to the edge of the bed, turning back to whine at him again.

"Mmm, what, are you hungry?"

The doctor squinted over at his clock mumbling, "11:45, ballocks." He ran a hand through his hair as he pulled back his blankets and swung his legs over the side. "I just layed down an hour ago cat," he complained, clicking on his bedside lamp.

"Meeeeow," the cat whined across the small room from atop his dresser. It pawed at his clothes folded neatly in anticipation of tomorrow's work day, knocking down his slacks and shirt.

John sighed again and stood. "Why do cats do that, just knock things over." He placed the folded clothing back in it's pile and turned. "No reason, just making a mess because you're boar…."  
The word died on his lips, his eyes wide and immediately wet.

' _John_ '

The doctor spun, eyes darting around the room and landing on the cat still sitting on top of his dresser, clearly watching him. His mouth fell open as the cat, looking him in the eyes, knocked his clothes off the dresser again.

"I'm going mad…" John began as the cat lept down and walked calmly over to his front door, sitting beside it and staring up at him.

"Meow," It cried before lifting it's paw to touch the door.

He almost laughed as he imagined Sherlock urging him on with a, 'don't be dull John, clearly the cat is talking to you'.

John shook his head and shrugged, "what the hell right, I've seen stranger things running around the bloody country with Sh…."

The blogger suddenly felt very old. He couldn't even speak the man's name. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before quickly dressing grabbing his keys and following the little black cat out into the night.

The cat walked quickly in the light London fog, keeping just far enough ahead that John could see the swish of it's fluffy black tail. The tinkling of it's bell helped as well as the feline took a sudden left onto thick cobblestone streets that John had never seen before.

The road seemed to dip into a spiral of lefts until leveling out near a row of homes converted in to small shops.

The cat continued on until it came to a thick wooden door covered in ivy. John would have thought it abandoned if it weren't for the warm glow from the window and the crescent moon shaped sign that read closed. The cat turned back to him and meowed before walking through the small flap at it's base.

"Um, I don't think I'm going to fit through there kitty," John chuckled.

He rapped lightly but received no answer save for a meow from the other side.

"Hum…," John reached out for the handle and it turned easily so he stepped inside.

Standing in the much to large darkened foyer he immediately felt strange, light headed, and he covered his eyes for a moment, blinking until they were able to adjust to the darkness.

Finally clear eyed he saw the cat already walking towards the barely defined staircase at the end of the hall, and he called out as he followed it up the stairs. "Oy…."

There was a strange blue light coming from under the door at the end of the hall he found at the top of the stairs and John looked down at his furry companion for guidance, but the cat was gone. He turned around in a half circle; he'd definitely chased it up here.

The door before him was the only one in sight, so where had his furry friend gone?

' _John_ '

John turned wide eyes on the door, he'd know that voice anywhere.

"Sher...Sherlock...," he whispered already creeping down the hall.

Once again the door was unlocked and the ex soldier's breath caught in his throat as he slowly pushed it open.

The room was massive, lavishly decorated with over sized furniture and a carpet he could feel bend beneath his well worn trainers. There was a large round bed at it's center that sat directly beneath a similarly sized round skylight.

What caused the doctor's eyes to water was the sight of his late detective floating on his back above the bed, limbs limp, and eyes closed. Both he and the bed were encircled by a ring of light that tinted the white walls a deep ocean blue.

John stared, mouth slack in shock as he stepped farther into the room. The raven curls shimmered as they were jostled by an unknown breeze.

'He looks like he's floating under water," the doctor thought.

' _John_ '

The veteran started. He'd definitely heard Sherlock's voice but the man's lips never moved. The doctor edged closer to the ring, noting the glowing blue white line on the floor marking it's edge.

"Sher…," John cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. "Sherlock," he whispered.

When the man didn't answer he stepped closer, the light painting his skin as he reached out with one singular thought, ' _Sherlock_ '.

The reaction was instant.

John could feel something not quite, but akin to, electricity shoot up his arm, and the light of the barrier rippled and crackled as Sherlock's lax frame fell atop the plush bed.

"Jesus," John shouted as he cradled his hand from the floor.

A moment later he could hear knocking, as if on a thick window, from behind him.

The doctor turned and stood, coming back to stand before the barrier, careful not to touch it.

"Sherlock...Sher...I can't hear you," John smiled, his tears finally falling.

The younger man knelt atop the bed with wide shocked eyes, his hands resting against the barrier without incident. He looked as if he were yelling but John couldn't hear him. He had so many questions, but for the moment he was just happy to be able to look into the detective's eyes and see his soul staring back. The sudden flash of lifeless blue eyes shattered the last of John's stoicism and his shoulders shook as he covered his eyes to hide his tears. A few minutes later when he was able to calm himself he raised his eyes back to his detective.

Sherlock still knelt, his hands balled in to fists against the barrier, his forehead resting against it as well. His eyes were squeezed shut but John could see the wetness on his cheeks. His hair was longer, touching his shoulders, and his curls were wild. Though his face was clean shaven and his shirt and trousers were crisp.

A moment later Sherlock looked up with sad baggy red eyes. He smiled slightly, just a simple upturn at the corner of his mouth, and John smiled back.

Sherlock flattened his hands against the barrier, motioning for the vet to do the same. John took a deep breath, reaching out, implicitly trusting that the reaction would be different.

This time there were only waves, ripples across its surface, and when they cleared he could hear his detective's voice.

"John! What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I uh...followed a cat," he replied with a half smile.

"What," Sherlock looked away but didn't remove his hands. "That makes no sense," he mumbled. "Why would she lead you here," he questioned to himself.

"Ah so she's a she then. We've run into each other twice now. Does she have a name so I can stop calling her cat," John chuckled.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, "Chubby Bunny." (1)

"What...no…."

"That's it, that's her name."

The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Sherlock was the first to speak as their giddy mood receded. "You know I thought you'd be more curious about all this." His eyes wandered around the room.

"Honestly, I'm just so glad to see you alive."

Sherlock's frivolous mood died quickly, his smile falling into a frown. "John, you can't be here. I don't know why she brought you here but…," his keen blue eyes darted around the room with an edge of fear that John didn't see very often.

"Who Bunny, I don't know, why do cats do anything."

John almost laughed at Sherlock's, 'don't be thick John,' expression.

"Sherlock, I know that look and I'm not being dense, the only living thing I've seen since I got home from work today is that bloody cat and you." The doctor was becoming agitated, but it dissipated quickly. "I can't believe you're here." He stepped closer to the barrier searching his friend's eyes, "I can't believe I get to see you again...one last time." He gulped, "Sherlock…."

"John," Sherlock sighed as he began. "I can't explain what's happening right now, but you must heed my words, if only this once." He couldn't meet his partner's confused eyes as he continued. "You have to leave this place. Right now."

"No," John immediately shook his head.

"Forget that you saw me, forget that you came here, forget the damned cat and go."

"I'm not leaving…."

"John," Sherlock added a bit more bass to his voice, hoping for his former air of authority and hoping the medic didn't notice it's quiver, straightening up taller on his knees. "Go."

John laughed and the detective was taken aback. He thought he'd never hear that sound again.

"Now look here, I'm not leaving...not without you."

Sherlock visibly deflated, sagging against the barrier. The taller man closed his eyes, again resting his forehead against the transparent blue wall. "I can't leave John. I physically can't."

John began sliding his hands around the force field. "There has to be a way to break through this...wall."

"That would be a bad idea." Sherlock rolled his shoulders, a strange look of hunger passing over his features. "I've been put in here for a reason John." He shook his dark head, "I don't want to hurt you."

"Sherlock...Sherlock look at me."

The once would be pirate balled his fists and squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Fine, listen then." The doctor took a deep breath. "When you fell…." he cleared his throat to stem the unbidden emotion. "I...I broke. Everything I thought I knew, about the world, about you, about who I... _thought_ I was...it all shattered." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Watching you d...die, was so much more painful than being shot in that God forsaken desert. And now, seeing you here, alive, I can't just, I _won't_ walk away."

"I'm not…. John...I'm not _alive_ ," Sherlock whispered, thick tears betraying his small steady voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm not _alive,_ John," the detective yelled.

"What do you mean you're not alive. I'm standing here speaking to you."

Sherlock finally met his eyes. "John...I died...I'm dead. I. Can't. Leave."

His doctor stared at him, mouth slack with confusion.

"Sherlock...I don't understand…."

"You don't need to understand, just leave!"

"No…."

Sherlock pulled his hands away, mouthing what the blond could make out as 'leave', before turning away.

"No, no you don't get to just dismiss me. Not after…," his voice began to rise with his anger. "Not after…."

The first slam of his balled fists against the blue sent ripples around it's entire surface. "Damn it Sherlock! You don't get to just send me away!"

The second sent sparks flying, and the detective turned quickly.

The shorter blond was panting, his eyes screwed shut.

"You don't get to order me around after making me watch you _die_!"

With the next slam the sparks didn't stop and Sherlock put his hands back on the wall.

"John...John stop!"

"Damn it!" Slam.

"John!"

"Damn it Sherlock!" The detective was nearly knocked backward with the force of his blow.

John's shoulders shook with sobs. "God damn it Sherlock...I love you…," he whispered.

The detective knelt, stunned. "John," his voice was small.

"God help me," the doctor trembled. "I love you." He started when he looked up. The blue wall was cracked. Long jagged lines stretched it's entire surface, up to the ceiling, in front of where he stood.

The pair stared at each other, before a small smile began to creep across the consulting detective's lips. "John I...John!"

The doctor turned but a hand clapped over his eyes, pushing him back and knocking his head in to the barrier hard enough to send him reeling.

"No, please! Let him stay! Just a while longer...please!"

More than the pain in his head, it hurt to hear Sherlock sound so desperate. But he had no time to focus on that new pain. Pulled forward, he fell and instead of the plush carpet his face hit water.

Flailing up in bed the doctor found himself badly tangled in his blankets, falling over the side in a cocoon of sheets.

"Bloody hell," he panted from the floor.

When his heart finally slowed John untangled himself and sat upright against the side of his bed. Running a still trembling hand through his hair the doctor closed his eyes.

The dream had been intense. Was it just his mind trying to process his waking life.

His eyes began to water at the thought of being given the chance to say those three simple words to his best friend.

'I love you,' John thought.

Was Sherlock's suicide his fault?

Would his detective still have jumped if he'd just said it...made him understand that it wasn't a friend type of love he meant.

"I love you," John whispered.

The soldier looked over at his clock. It read twelve o'clock, midnight.

John huffed, and rested his wheaten head on his knees. A few minutes later he rose and went to the bathroom to relieve himself, grabbing the bottle of whisky and a glass from the kitchen.

Only when the tall bottle was half empty was he able to drift off to a dreamless sleep.

ooooooo

Authors Note:

"Chubby Bunny" is a game where you stuff an increasing number of large marshmallows in your mouth and try to say the words Chubby Bunny.


End file.
